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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25181020">Rug</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/medoroa/pseuds/medoroa'>medoroa</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Three occasions on which 007 got on his knees [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Object Insertion, Sub James Bond</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:21:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,779</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25181020</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/medoroa/pseuds/medoroa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There are so many things Bond wants from M, but to his eternal frustration, only very few things M is willing to give him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James Bond/M | Gareth Mallory</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Three occasions on which 007 got on his knees [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2176881</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Rug</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIskra/gifts">TheIskra</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For my BFF's birthday. Happy birthday!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
"So tell me, Bond — how old are you these days?"
</p><p>
"46, sir."
</p><p>
The question is posed in an indulgent, soft tenor; the answer is short and curt, impatient, skirting the edge of impertinent.
</p><p>
"Really," M says, in a voice that betrays his indifference both to Bond's answer and to its tone. The leather of his office chair groans under him as he reaches for the carafe on the far left hand of his mahogany desk. His knee nudges against Bond's side, and M mutters a short 'excuse me' before pouring himself a glass of water.
</p><p>
Bond sucks in his breath and holds it to keep a noise from escaping his throat, then breathes out slowly through his nose, forcing his muscles to relax. "No problem, sir," he says, but the feel of Mallory's knee against him has made his skin flush, goosebumps rising along his thighs. It's too cramped here, the antique desk too small; he thinks of the spacious, slick decor of the previous offices, of the large glass-top desk, and imagines Mallory gazing at him through that transparent surface. His balls feel heavier at the thought.
</p><p>
"Are you thirsty, Bond," M asks, placing two signatures on the last page of the document in front of him. He then closes the folder and tosses it to the side, letting it land with a loud smack on top of the pile of documents resting at the edge of his desk, ready to be picked up by Moneypenny in the morning.
</p><p>
"No, sir," Bond says, listening intently to the creak of M's chair and the shuffling of clothing. He twists his neck to look over his shoulder, and sees M has pulled away from the desk, his legs crossed as he leans back, a tumbler of water in one hand. He can't see M's face, but knows M can see him, all of him, from where he sits. He looks down again, rubbing his forehead against the hairs of the oriental rug under him, and feels his ass squeeze tight around the smooth end of a fountain pen, a physical reaction beyond his control.
</p><p>
Suit jacket and shirt tucked up, slacks pulled halfway down his thighs, he is presenting himself on his knees to M. M can see his spread cheeks, his puckered opening, his balls, and a hint of his half-hard cock hanging between his firm legs. Bond imagines M's eyes running over his skin, taking in the obscene sight. He imagines M's cock push up at his fly. He imagines mouthing it through M's dark slacks. He feels his cock grow just slightly harder.
</p><p>
"Anything else I could get for you," M asks, conversationally, and reaches down to flick the nib of the pen.
</p><p>
This time, Bond isn't able to bite back the noise. A strangled sound escapes his throat before he can cover his mouth with his hand, and once he does, the feel of coarse fingers against his mouth makes him part his lips almost instinctively. He pushes in two digits, wetting them with his tongue before sucking, imagining the taste of M — imagining licking and cleaning every inch of M's cock after a twelve-hour workday, imagining the smell of M's sweat as he buries his nose in M's dark hair, cockhead pushing into his throat. The fingers rubbing over his tongue isn't enough, and neither is the pen; it's far too thin to satisfy him, even smaller and thinner than the toys women have used when playing with him, and no matter how much he shifts his hips, it won't fuck him the way he wants.
</p><p>
Bond lets his fingers slip out of his mouth with a groan and breathes slowly, trying to steady the wild beating of his heart against his ribcage. "I would very much like to suck your cock, sir," he says, the words alone making his own cock twitch.
</p><p>
When M replies, his voice sounds genuinely regretful. "You know I can't allow you to do that, Bond."
</p><p>
Blood rushes to Bond's head in a sensation he can't name as either anger or arousal. If he chose to let his anger guide him, he could overpower M with a flick of his wrist; even with M's field experience, there is no doubt about this. It would be a simple act, to hold M down and do with him as Bond pleases. And yet, Bond knows nothing about that would satisfy his cravings.
</p><p>
Even while gazing down at his unabashed display of desire, M chooses to withhold everything from him. The thought makes pre-come slowly gather at the tip of his cock.
</p><p>
Bond swallows. "I understand, sir." He presses his forehead to the rug, and squirms in the limited space allowed him under the desk as he reaches down, one hand grabbing a cheek and another sneaking between his legs to rub wet fingers against his hole. He circles the stretched muscle, feeling it twitch in reaction to the cooling saliva, and barely holds back the impulse to finger himself. Instead he pulls apart his hole with two fingers, hoping it will show M he can take more than the pen, so much more. "Please. Anything." Any touch. Any bone M will throw him. Anything. "<i>Sir</i>."
</p><p>
Without a warning M takes the pen and pulls it out of him. Bond gasps, cold air brushing against his hole for a moment before it closes up under his fingertips. He hears the dull thump of the pen hitting the rug and thinks he must have cocked it up, and cocked it up well and good — he asked for too much, was too needy and too ungrateful — and in his mind he hears M's disgruntled voice order him to get up and tuck his unseemly erection into his slacks.
</p><p>
Instead, what he actually hears is the creaking of the chair and something clattering above him on the desk. He licks his dry lips and turns his head, the rug burning against his cheek, and strains to look over his shoulder to where M is sitting, legs uncrossed and holding a long object in the palm of his hand. He sees a flash of reflected light and realizes — it's the marble handle of M's letter opener.
</p><p>
"I presume you have no objections," M says, and with no further preamble, the cold stone presses against Bond's ass and pushes in.
</p><p>
He yells. It's smooth and hard, uncomfortably heavy as it rests deep in him. Yet his ass clenches around it, feeling its angular shape against his sphincter, and relishing in how deeply it's opening him up. And then, he feels it move inside him. M is turning it, twisting it, rubbing its thicker tip over his flesh, invading him so absolutely and thoroughly that Bond's body begins to tremble, making him clutch at the rug, nails digging in painfully. His mouth is gaping open now, saliva running down to pool in the short hairs pressed to his cheek.
</p><p>
"Touch yourself."
</p><p>
It's an order. Without a thought Bond obeys, hands grabbing his leaking cock and smearing the pre-come over its length as the rocks his hips, fucking his fists while he imagines M's steady gaze watching him like this: ass bare, cock heavy and hard, hole eager for anything M deigns to give him. Every shift of his hips forward shoots pleasure to the tip of his cock and makes his balls tighten, and he clenches and unclenches around the heavy thing in him in rhythm with his thrusts, forcing his body to vividly feel its shape and hardness and weight as he chases his orgasm.
</p><p>
He knows M can see him. He wants M to see him love what he's been given. He wants M to see him come with it buried deep in his body. He's close now, hands and knees starting to shake, and his open mouth is muttering "sir, sir, <i>sir</i>".
</p><p>
"Come."
</p><p>
Bond lets out a low, keening sound, right hand starting to beat himself off as he lifts his left arm over his head, bracing his body. He pulls, almost painfully, desperate to obey the curt order even as his mind short-circuits, bright and hot. If he could, he would roll over onto his back, spread his legs, and let M see how hard and messy his cock is, let him know exactly what effect he has on him. He wants M to watch as his balls tighten and come gushes from the hole at the tip. He wants to see M's face, unstirred, and blue eyes penetrating him from above.
</p><p>
And at that thought he comes, thick white streams hitting his shirt, his face, the rug. The slightly alkaline smell fills up the small space under the desk and Bond sucks in a deep, shuddering breath as he milks the last drops from his cock, imagining it's M's come he's smelling.
</p><p>
Bond feels his body go boneless as he slides down to lie on his side, his softening cock in his hands and the marble handle still in him. It hurts, just slightly, now that he's coming down, but he wants it to stay there for a little while yet, wants to feel its heaviness in him and enjoy the way his hole and his spent cock twitch as he squeezes down on it. He wonders if M will let him keep it — or maybe he should just take it, and hope M doesn't request to have it back. Maybe he will gift M a new one, something with large glass beads adorning its handle.
</p><p>
M is silent as he stands up, impervious to the loud, ragged breathing filling his small office. As it quiets, M straightens his suit jacket, fills his briefcase with a handful of documents, and calmly walks around the desk and towards the door.
</p><p>
Bond blinks away the wetness in his eyes and lifts his head to catch a glimpse of the front of M's slacks, but M's buttoned jacket hampers his gaze. So instead he imagines that M came, that his underwear is utterly soaked and ruined. His tongue writhes in his mouth, pretending that he's tasting M, licking thick come off the inside of his white cotton briefs before moving on to clean M's flaccid cock, mouthing its entire length and keeping it there, sucking gently on the soft warm flesh filling him. His mouth, dry from the adrenaline rush, starts to water at the thought.
</p><p>
His attention is drawn back to reality when he hears the door open, and he sees M turn around to look at him.
</p><p>
"Oh, and Bond — do clean up before you leave."
</p><p>
"Yes, sir," Bond says, and the door clicks closed.
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25712098">Steady On</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIskra/pseuds/TheIskra">TheIskra</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
</div></div></div>
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